


The Disappearance of John Watson

by CCNSurvivor



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 12:17:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10831119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CCNSurvivor/pseuds/CCNSurvivor
Summary: Returning to London after the hiatus, Holmes is eager to share with Watson what truly transpired in Switzerland. But Watson has fled the city, driven out by the grief for his friend and companion, as well as the recent loss of his wife. Now it is up to Holmes to chase after him, following what little clues a series of letters provide.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started posting this on tumblr a while ago and have now finally committed to putting it up here as well. This is my first multi-chapter fic for these two, so I'd appreciate some feedback provided it's done nicely.

Prologue:

 

It was in March of 1894 that I finally set foot into my home country, and indeed into London, again. 

It was a peculiar day, full of generous sunshine and ruthless breezes that made me feel how very much my brush with Professor Moriarty and my subsequent travels had altered me. 

There was no escaping the chill that slipped beneath my clothes and proceeded to investigate with determined, ice-cold fingers whether there was any flesh left clinging to my bones. Yet despite my discomfort, I was forced to resist the golden hues of the sun that beckoned me out of the shadows, for I still was still in grave danger. 

The last act of the very performance that had begun in my old lodgings at Baker Street was bound to take place there also. 

Colonel Sebastian Moran – who had hunted me through Switzerland and forced me to abandon my friend and colleague to his grief - was soon to be tried in front of the highest court in London. 

I could have endeavoured to catch him myself, of that there was no doubt. But it was a foolish man who ignored reason for the sake of pride and vengeance, and in my time in London I had been fortunate enough to acquire the acquaintance of a great many people, kind and willing enough to aid in my undertakings should the need arise. It was only just that I should make use of them now. 

For the moment, however, I slipped through the city’s streets unseen, my hat pulled low to hide my eyes and my collar drawn up against the wind. Fittingly, perhaps, the weather could not quite decide yet either whether to cling on to the old winter or forge ahead into spring. 

London’s heartbeat of hooves on pavement, the shouts of newsagents and vendors and the smell of poverty and progress were so potent that I was relieved to be approaching the only possible location that offered up reprieve. 

The Diogenes Club was situated on Pall Mall and had not changed since its creation. The silence that welcomed me there was instantaneously soothing and without exchanging more than eye contact with the concierge, I proceeded deeper into the building until I opened the door of what was commonly referred to as the Stranger’s Room. 

My brother Mycroft was precisely where I expected him to be, reclining in one of the large, over-stuffed armchairs, his hands folded peacefully above his generous stomach. 

“Sherlock,” he greeted me leisurely and then succumbed to silence as if tired unnecessarily by that single utterance. 

“I trust the wheels are in motion?” I inquired, ignoring the only other armchair. 

Instead, I continued to wander through the room, enjoying the luxury of stretching my legs. 

“Naturally,” he smiled and I was struck yet again by how content he seemed. 

Entrusted with a particularly splendid mind and entirely devoid of relations, he always appeared at peace for which I was pleased and envious in equal measure. For a restless brain such as mine, it was especially unthinkable to acquire such a state of tranquillity. Indeed, it has only been possible with the help of opiates and the like. 

“Then I will go and speak to Watson. The sooner he learns the truth, the better.” 

I could only hope that he would forgive my deception once he learned of my reasons. 

“Ah, yes,” Mycroft sighed and I was taken aback by the disappearance of the glint in his eyes moreso than to see him hoist himself out of his chair to pass on a letter. “Your landlady extended this to me upon my last visit.” 

I accepted the envelope and turned it over in my hand. It was plain and white and neatly sealed, no smudge of grease or dirt or fingerprints visible to the eye. 

Just my name in fine ink. 

Truthfully, it was not the glimpse of that familiar handwriting that told me everything I needed to know about the sender; it was a simple but logical train of thought. 

Mycroft, although in charge of my belongings in my absence, would not have gone out of his way to tend to them. He would have entrusted others with that which, in turn, meant that the poor Mrs Hudson must have been upset enough to pass the letter on to a stranger so that it may be delivered to Mycroft. 

Having lived in her lodgings for more than a decade, I can attest to the fact that Mrs Hudson was hardly of flappable character. Yes, she would gripe and moan about the clientele that occasionally frequented the flat, but she was by no means left shaken. 

Consequently, the letter had to have been written by someone we – and even Mycroft – were all familiar with. 

Mycroft’s grey eyes had followed my every move and only flitted away now as if he sensed that this required the illusion of privacy. 

I turned my back to him, nonetheless, and stared out of the window for a few moments before opening the envelope. The hustle and bustle outside had not ceased and yet a strange sense of foreboding befell me, as if I knew that something was quite gravely out of the ordinary. 

Watson’s handwriting was neat and even which did nothing to re-assure me. The most atrocious acts could be committed in full control of our capacities and so it was with some concern that I read on.

_My dear Holmes,_

_You mustn’t think I have taken leave of my senses for writing to you. Though perhaps I am quite mad, after all. I am about to embark on an adventure which is an exciting way to say that I can no longer bear to stay in London. Your memory lives in every corner of the city and although I am meant to have left my grief behind by now, it does not seem possible._ _Mary, too, has left me so, you see, I am quite alone. Alone in a city filled with ghosts and regrets and hopes which are the most painful to be perfectly honest._

_I think of Mary often and of the strength she thought I had. At times I awaken to her hand upon my brow only to find myself grasping for empty air. But there’s a finality to it, Holmes, although the grief is too much to bear. You, however, were never found, my friend, you simply disappeared into the depth of the rushing falls and like a fool I keep hoping for you return, for one sign, however small._

_Well, no more. I must leave before I do something utterly stupid. I will leave this note with Mrs Hudson just in case. Perhaps in time I’ll be able to make my peace with it all._

_Yours,_

_John H. Watson_

Never the eloquent one, I was at a loss for words as to the emotions that ran through me as I read his letter. Sympathy and guilt were perhaps prevalent the most. 

In a world in which I had decided to see that justice was done, I had done terrible wrong to a dear and generous soul. 

Perhaps it was selfishness then or perhaps the regard I’d always had for him that compelled me to make a rather sudden and impulsive decision. Once Moran had been caught, I would busy myself finding Watson and once I’d found him, I would make certain that he’d receive the care and attention he so desperately needed.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1:

 

From the accounts Watson has written about our adventures, I was well aware that I was meant to tell my story in as much detail as possible. The truth was, however, that I was so taken aback by his letter that the matters I usually pay such close attention to vanished entirely from my mind. 

I have often seen this state of shock described as time slowing down but until now that had not been the case. Even as I struggled with the late Professor Moriarty on the edge of the Reichenbach Falls, I had felt that time was speeding up and that my brain was merely capable of taking in even more information than usual. 

But Watson’s impulsive decision had turned everything on its head. I had depended on him too much, I realised with a start. There were limits to his patience and generosity, after all, and I could not fault him for that. I only wished he could have waited. Just a few days more and I could have spared him some of his grief. 

I found Baker Street entirely unchanged. Hansoms were slowly jostling along, inviting passers-by for a ride and for some shelter from the cold. The barbershop’s door was wide open, rattling in its hinges thanks to the wind, and the news vendor was standing confident and tall on his pedestal, crying out the day’s headlines. 

All of these impressions were so familiar to me that only they were capable of piercing through the mist that shrouded my mind. And as I let myself into that faithful old building, my heart did leap in my chest with joy. 

My youth had seen me travel across Europe and England, a fixed point nowhere to be found, and so it was a startling realisation now to observe that this simple structure of brick and mortar had transformed into a home. 

Alerted, no doubt, by the closing of the door, our landlady appeared in the hall, clasping her hand over her mouth when she saw me standing there. Moments drifted by silently as she remained frozen, gaping at me, her face draining of colour, her throat only capable of squeezing out small whimpers and gasps. 

In my preoccupation with Watson’s letter, I had entirely forgotten to give any thought to poor Mrs Hudson and an appropriate manner in which to break the news of my return to her. 

Watson’s absence pushed itself painfully to the forefront of my mind, for he’d always known how to deal with emotional women far more kindly than I had the patience for. I took her into my arms nonetheless, modelling my friend’s behaviour while longing to forget how desperately I wished it was his broad frame I was clinging onto. 

“Oh, Mr Holmes,” she whispered at last, dabbing at her eyes with a hastily produced handkerchief. “I’d always hoped you’d…” Once more words seemed to fail her. “The fright you gave us all! And the poor doctor…”

Her voice trailed off and her eyes grew dim as she searched for the words to convey what was already known to me. 

“Has the note reached you then? Did your brother show you?” 

She squeezed my arm while I nodded my assent, her wrinkled fingers prodding at my flesh to assess my physical well being. 

“I did not read it, of course, it was his private business. But it did not take a mind reader to see that he was rather unwell. Pale he was, the good doctor, and feeble as if he’d only just returned from the front. And pardon me for saying so but in a manner of speaking he had. Friendless, the lovely Mrs Watson succumbed to illness, gravitating from one place of loss to another…” 

She could not have known that her words only served to constrict my heart further, for the picture she painted of my friend was bleak indeed. 

Watson had always possessed a gregarious nature that had often made me wonder how he could fare with a solitary creature such as myself. But he had never complained and enjoyed himself enough the few times his workload had permitted him to seek out the company of others at his club. Though I was beginning to wonder now whether the company of those had truly been enough to sustain him, it certainly seemed too superficial to remedy his grief. 

“He is gone,” I told her, because it was important to utter those words and hear them spoken by my own voice. 

She nodded sadly, had known as much of course and yet I could not bear her knowing gaze, and so I found myself adding in a brittle tone that cracked and crumbled under the weight of the emotion I was desperate to ignore, “For the time being, anyhow. Perhaps we shall receive note from him in due course. He is bound to return eventually.” 

I did not speak with conviction, though I was desolate enough to hope. 

“In the meantime, Mrs Hudson, we must be on our guard. You harbour in your house now a man still very much sought after by the criminal underworld. News of my return will undoubtedly have spread rapidly and although I’d much rather see you safe elsewhere, I must ask for your help if you’d be gracious enough to give it.” 

“Consider it granted, Mr Holmes, and happily so,” she replied and I came to respect the determination I saw gleaming in her eyes. 

So without further ado I proceeded to inform her of the delivery that was expected at the house at any moment and of the role I wished for her to play, and I daresay that the capture of Moran would not have gone so smoothly had it not been for her help and that of Inspector Lestrade from the Yard. 

Some credit, of course, had to be extended to Monsieur Oscar Meunier also who had crafted the bust of wax that bore such likeness to my person that it had fooled the likes of Parker and Moran. 

Oh, we did celebrate that night, Mrs Hudson and I and – if Lestrade was to be believed – those inspectors of the Yard who had previously valued my opinion. But as triumphant of an occasion as it might have been, it was overshadowed by the absence of Watson. 

Unsurprisingly, the sentiment remained unspoken between us, but in the silence that perforated our conversation every once in a while, I could not help but wonder how he would have felt had he been present today, and somewhat shamefully I recalled that the acquisition of the wax bust had not been a solely practical decision. 

Of course it had been perfect for the occasion, a magnificent illusion to conclude this the most exciting, treacherous chapter of my life. But I would have been lying had I argued that the decision making process had ended there, for I had given quite some consideration to my Watson’s reaction. 

I had hoped to impress him, but more than that I had hoped that a show of my skills, imagination and connections might sweeten the anger I feared I might find. Undoubtedly a cowardly move and yet even now I longed for a glimpse of those blue eyes wide with excitement and wonder.

I did so flourish under his appreciative gaze which meant more to me at times than any praise heaped upon me by some high authority. How much it would have pleased me to see him recline in his usual armchair, legs outstretched towards the crackling warmth of the fire, most assuredly fatigued and overwrought but nonetheless wearing a serene smile of contentment. 

We finally would have parted company that evening the most closest of friends again, and perhaps I would have at last succumbed to a sound sleep devoid of nightmares. 

As it stood, Mrs Hudson rose to her feet shortly before midnight, traces of tiredness evident on her face and bid me gently goodnight. We might not have mentioned him, but it was apparent in her treatment of me that she knew how much I missed Watson’s company especially on this evening. 

I saw her out of our living quarters and down the stairs with the courtesy of a gentleman and only returned when I had assured myself of her utmost comfort. 

The silence that met me was unequivocally one of the worst I had encountered. It did not have the comforting quality of those I had cloaked myself in in Watson’s presence, ones that furthered the critical thoughts of the mind or the deeper exploration of the self. It was dry, worn and empty and much too bright, illuminating the loneliest crevices of my existence with ruthless efficiency. 

I remained standing in the middle of the room feeling small and yet all too prominent until at last my legs obeyed me again and I walked into my bedroom where I disrobed and prepared for bed. 

The night that followed was horrid, and in the end I much preferred the tossing and turning that had preceded the lingering presence of my old friend whose face came to me in almost every dream, accusing me of carelessness and shaming me with the reality of my actions. 

The day, too, proceeded in much the same manner, hopeless and devoid of stimulation. No matter how angrily I forced the lids of my eyes open, darkness still seemed to linger around the edges. 

Darkness also pervaded every part of my day, blacker than the depression that had gripped me from time to time and no amount of morphine strong enough to soothe it. 

The catatonic stupor passed eventually and made way for wild restlessness. For days on end I strode back and forth across our tattered carpet, forcing my brain to co-operate, to throw up one dazzling string of logic that would lead me to Watson’s whereabouts. 

But all I had was that blasted white envelope that suggested absolutely nothing. Handwritten and hand-delivered, containing Watson’s anguish but little else. I could stare at it until my eyes watered and still deduce but naught. 

One by one the days drifted by and with every one that passed I grew more despondent. Most of the time I lay stretched out on the sofa, suckling dispassionately at one pipe or another. 

Mrs Hudson came and went, bringing with her plates of food lovingly prepared and retrieved them again with a scoff of disgruntlement and look of concern that I rather rudely ignored. 

Her worry was understandable, of course, and yet I wondered if a couple of untouched plates were truly worth fussing over in light of the disappearance of my oldest and truest friend. 

An entire week must have passed when Mrs Hudson suddenly clambered up the stairs in a hurry, shouting my name in the most unbecoming fashion and piercing my brooding reverie. 

When at last she crossed the threshold, she was so winded from the excitation that she could only wave at me what appeared to be another letter. 

With a start I jumped up from the sofa as I had once been capable of in my youthful days and tore the letter from her suspended hand. 

“Now don’t upset yourself, Mrs Hudson,” I told her, even as my eyes greedily scanned the lines of familiar handwriting, “you go right back downstairs and make yourself a nice cup of tea. There, perhaps one of your biscuits or a slice of that bread and butter pudding that smelled so heavenly yesterday. I daresay I’ve worked up quite the appetite myself.”

If she spoke to me I did not hear her, too busy was I with guiding her out of the room so that I might have some privacy. Blood was pumping through my veins to a beat that thundered in my ears.

Oh, how painful it was to be alive again! 

The envelope was torn open in some haste, though I made certain that my eager fingers did not break stamp or seal. 

Watson had written on crisp white paper that was crumpled here and there where he had attempted to fold it in order to make it fit the restraints of the envelope. Every letter had been jotted down in his most excellent penmanship and – as had been the case in the previous one – there was no smudge, no trail of any kind that hinted at his fragile state of mind. 

The words he had written went as follows:

_“My dearest Holmes,_

_I have been on this adventure for the better half of a week now when the old urge compelled me to put pen to paper once more. I shall write to you as it was once my habit to write about you and the many cases we endeavoured to solve together._

_I had left London on a whim and so it was perhaps befitting my mood that on a whim I, too, chose to do this first part of the journey by foot rather than by train which would otherwise have been advisable. I had made it as far as Paddington, in fact, when it suddenly occurred to me that I had no idea where I was headed. So since it was a crisp but lovely morning I decided to walk. Now this might very well have been foolish of me – a soldier with an injured leg back out in the field with only a backpack for company – but for the first few days I rather enjoyed this extended hike. Oh, the air, Holmes! To breathe fully into one’s lungs, to feel the tentative sunshine on one’s face. London is so terribly full – of sounds, of people and filth – so dreadfully overwhelming that I derived such simple pleasure from the sight of the horizon alone. Outside our capital there are green meadows that extend indefinitely, forests with wildlife that bares itself to those patient enough to wait and spectate, and lakes that dot the countryside like the most splendid oases in the dessert._

_Forgive me, I seem to have got carried away again. Without your company it is easily enough accomplished, you know? Mary possessed the tolerance of a saint. She’d listen to me endlessly, too polite to remind me that perhaps I’d been prattling on for much too long. She was sweet, my Mary. You, on the other hand, always made sure to let me know when your patience had worn thin. Sometimes with only as much as the irritated quirk of an eyebrow… How different you both were and yet…I…I dare not put into words how much both of you moved me…meant to me._

_Now the sun is setting and I must go to bed, for tomorrow another long day’s hiking lies ahead of me._

_Yours,_

_John Watson_


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 2:

 

Watson’s note sent me into a flurry of action, and it was only with some restraint that I managed to fold the letter so it neatly fit into my pocket, before striding into the bedroom to pack a few of my belongings. I may only have just returned to London, but there was no doubt on my mind that I must go chasing after him. 

It occurred to me then, as I was throwing books and clothes and other items haphazardly into my suitcase how little I had been using my brain in the past few days. I had not once considered to search what few belongings Watson still kept at our lodgings. Undoubtedly, that search would not have amounted to much and yet the fact that the mere idea had not presented itself to me was utterly absurd. 

He had stated in his letter that he had left on a whim and yet, perhaps, his personal effects could have offered up some hints as to where the mood had taken him. There were some men, to which Watson counted himself also, who subscribed to the idea that even the most spontaneous desires had a firm basis in consciousness if only one attempted to search for an explanation. By that same token, his emotions might have made him momentarily blind to the string of logic that propelled him towards his destination now, yet a glance at his possessions might reveal more to me, level-headed as I hoped to be. 

I cursed myself and the depression that had paralysed me and paced angrily into the living room, leaving a half-packed suitcase behind. For the first time I seemed to see, truly see into what dreadful state the flat had succumbed. 

Newspapers, books and sketches Watson had once made were strewn across the floor, a tapestry of my anguish, of course, but how had I lived there these past few days? 

All at once what of Mrs Hudson’s behaviour I had deemed silly, seemed not so ludicrous anymore. I had been most shamefully self-absorbed and I owed our kind landlady more than one word of apology. Still, I could not spare the time now to stay and tidy, however much I regretted it on this occasion.

Instead, I climbed the stairs to the topmost floor in a rush, determined to uncover one piece of evidence that would suggest where Watson was headed. A favourite childhood vacation, perhaps. 

Yet when my fingertips came to rest against the door that separated me from Watson’s room, I halted. All of a sudden I felt bashful and shy, unable to enter what had once been the domain of my friend. 

I could scarce recall what it had looked like when I had last lived at Baker Street. I had been unprepared for his sudden marriage to Mary Morstan then and consequently unwilling to confront any traces of his absence. My deep affections were few and far between and if a true connection was made, I struggled adapting to the changes that were perhaps inevitable. This rigid nature of mine had earned me words of criticism and disapproval before and yet it was something so firmly rooted within me that I could not hope to shake it. Losing Watson to the love of a woman had cut me far more deeply than I had been able to admit to myself until solitude had been forced upon me in the silence of the Tibetan mountains. 

But even now I did not quite know what I feared to find more: a room devoid of any signs that Watson and I had shared more than simple occupancy here, or a room choking me with memories of the past. I was quite unable to bear any more regrets at present, and yet I needed to overcome these petty emotions if I wished to gain the upper hand in this chase. 

Melancholy and trepidation swelled in my chest and filled my stomach with nervous flutters as I finally crossed the threshold. But the room looked bright and promising, inviting me back like an old friend so that within seconds I grew exceedingly overcome. So overcome, in fact, that the fragile state of my body forced me to seek refuge on Watson’s bed. 

Pressing my palms into the soft mattress, I tried to slow the rapid beating of my heart by sheer force of will alone. Everything in the room was in an almost pristine state of care, undoubtedly due to our dear landlady. No stale smell that would speak of neglect, not one layer of dust. It was all so perfectly ordinary that I thought it entirely possible that Watson might enter any moment now, inquiring with some concern about my heath. 

Something hard and painful constricted my throat, a lump that refused to shift and so I hurriedly directed my attention elsewhere, for it would do me no good to dwell on these bleak and foolish thoughts. 

Think, I urged myself, focus, but even as I squinted to try and see the little details that might be of vital importance, I could find nothing. A great many volumes of Watson’s favourite books were still here, dog-eared with bent spines. He’d carried them around everywhere, to his practice, on a case. 

For the latter choice I had reprimanded him once and never again, because he had defended himself so vehemently and with such passion that I had felt an imbecile for scolding him at all. 

“That ennui you speak of so often, Holmes?” he had asked. “That slips under your skin, drains you and robs you of breath? Perhaps I am yet to encounter it myself and yet I find that the hardest work day, the most insufferable of memories can be kept at bay by the beauty of words I find in these volumes. There’s hope, you see? So please permit me to carry one or two at times. I promise I’ll be as alert and attentive as ever.” 

The good fellow stuck to his word and was as reliable as before, making me feel rather silly for my childish jealousy and selfishness. But the truth of the matter was that I enjoyed his attention too much to share it, even if it was with an inanimate object. 

I wanted all of my Watson, his keen eyes focused intently on my skin, my every move as I searched for clues and dazzled him with my deductions. That small upward quirk of the lip when I managed to amuse him. I wanted the sadness that sometimes crept into his gaze when he took in a particularly heart-breaking paragraph, and I wanted to evoke in him emotions that were forbidden to me by society. 

Drawing myself back to the present required a monumental effort which was only made possible by the palpable reminder of Watson’s absence because he had not, in fact, stepped into the room or indeed into my life, squeezing my shoulder and eyeing me with some concern. No imprudent thoughts or fantasies would be of use to me now. 

Worn from the sudden excitation, I rose from the bed with all the grace of a hunched over old man, grasping on to the edge of his nightstand for support. The motion brought me closer to the books on Watson’s shelf and as my eyes wandered over the titles once more, I suddenly realised that something was amiss. 

The spines of two or three volumes of poetry looked as if they had been removed and glued back together several times. Now perhaps it was a bout of female intuition that possessed me, but it struck me as odd that Watson would treat his books as shabbily if also they did always look well-worn and read. 

The emotion was so potent, however, that without further consideration I reached up and broke apart the volumes with reckless cruelty, gasping in astonishment when each and every one revealed to me pocket-sized notebooks in the hollow space beyond. 

Lowering myself upon the bed once more, I tentatively opened one of them, closing it just as nervously after I had taken in the title written in fine ink on the first page. 

_The journal of John H. Watson_. 

Heat rushed to my face in such excess that I felt my ears turn red as my mind summed up rapidly what a blessing and a curse this finding could prove to be. Minutes slipped by as I deliberated whether to open one book again, but in the end it felt too great a breach of privacy to be justified just yet.

It might have been utter idiocy on my part, yet I dreaded to think how our relationship could be altered should I read his innermost thoughts unbidden. No, I would only resort to this when I had no other option. 

With my mind quite made up, I strode downstairs once again to finish packing whatever was left of my belongings and of use to me in this endeavour.

I sent word to Mycroft, outlining briefly what I was determined to do. I also informed him that I would make contact once I’d found myself an inn and that I wished for any future correspondences on Watson’s part to be forwarded to that address. 

One final glance I stole at the chamber that was no longer a home without my Watson, before I shrugged into my jacket, wrapped a scarf around my neck and descended the staircase, suitcase in hand. 

Mrs Hudson was precisely where I had requested she’d be, in her sitting room a steaming cup of tea in her trembling hands, and my heart softened when I even spotted an untouched plate of bread and butter pudding by her side.

“Dr Watson appears well enough,” I told her in as gentle a tone as I could manage, although her head still snapped in my direction as if I had startled her. A testament to the taut state of her nerves, perhaps. “The letter was sent from Sudbury postal station which is where I am headed presently. He states he is enjoying nature and the fresh air.” 

I conjured up what I hoped would pass for an encouraging smile, though Mrs Hudson’s watering eyes very nearly caused me to waver. 

“He truly seems in better spirits, but I owe it to myself and to him to go out there, too. I’d be very cross if I lingered and his mood deteriorated.” 

“Of course, Mr Holmes,” she nodded, rising to her feet. “You will be taking the train, surely?” 

“Yes, I have the schedule memorised. In my absence, should any more post arrive would you be so kind as to forward it to the Diogenes Club at Pall Mall, care of Mycroft Holmes? I am certain young Wiggins of the Irregulars will be more than happy to assist you.” 

I assumed she had risen to her feet to protest any involvement with the street urchins I often surrounded myself with, but instead she went to her cupboard to retrieve a handful of items. 

“A bottle of cold apple juice and some sandwiches. Even if the journey isn’t long, a little bit of food cannot hurt. Dr Watson certainly knew that. And don’t you worry yourself,” she paused at last to squeeze my hand, “I will follow your instructions to the letter. The house is terribly quiet without the doctor who has always been polite enough to inquire after me, and without the sounds of explosions emanating from your quarters.”

I made to point out that it would be inconvenient to carry more than necessary on my person, but her gesture was so thoughtful that I hurriedly shut my mouth again and went to retrieve my trusted carpetbag to store the items. With plenty of nourishment in toe, I at last bid her farewell and hailed down a hansom which took me in due course to Liverpool Street Station. 

Along the way we passed the Regent’s Park whose trees stood in tentative bloom, their branches stretching out like long arms across the fence that tried in vain to contain them and University College London where young students milled about, enjoying the few hours of sunshine they were granted. 

How long had it been since I had possessed such youth and spirit? 

How long since I had realised my own inclination which was at least partially responsible for sending me hurtling after Watson now? 

Undoubtedly, I would have acted similarly anyhow, for he was a dear and kind friend, but it felt ignorant to deny my nature now when it was so very responsible for the overwhelming emotions that had paralysed my brain. 

At any rate, a dip into my past was never a happy one, for I had been much too foolish, much too awkward and naïve to merit any feelings of contentment or pride now, and so I was relieved to find the exterior of the station looming ahead. 

The clattering of hooves on the pavement infiltrated my consciousness as we joined the long queue of cabs and hansoms that were making their way towards the entrance. Rapping my cane against the roof of my vehicle, I alerted my cabbie, before collecting both of my bags and jumping out into the streets. I would be faster from here by foot and so I hurriedly paid him and went on my way. 

The good weather had coaxed most of London’s inhabitants out of their holes and with some disdain and discomfort I watched them spilling out of trains and onto the platforms or wrangling their way into already over-stuffed compartments. Engines roared to life here and there and white hot steam hissed up, punctuating the scene. 

Reluctantly I joined the throng, pushing my way forward and towards the relevant platform while elbows collided with my side and heels dug into my toes. 

At last we were on our way, pulling out of the station amidst a groan of metal against metal as the aged bones of the locomotive cranked into motion.

I sat in my first class compartment, my forehead resting against the cool glass of the window, listening dispassionately to the thrum of voices that reverberated from either wall. What dreadfully cheerful mood seemed to have befallen these poor souls! 

The journey to Colchester was slow and sluggish and although my mind was occupied otherwise, I must confess that I’d never had the eye for nature that Watson had. I wasn’t ignorant of it by any means, but that wasn’t to say that it could lift my spirits quite so easily as it could his. 

The more distance we gained from London the more passengers, too, climbed on board the train, undoubtedly headed for a weekend on the coast now that the weather looked so promising. I, on the other hand, was yearning for the comfort of a private room and little else. But first I needed to endure a tiresome carriage-ride to Sudbury. 

When at last the small village with its narrow, winding streets came into view, the sun had started to set, painting the sky in a rosy tinge. What a beautiful site he had chosen to send his letter from. It was all so very charming and attractive, appealing clearly to his very astute sense of aesthetic. 

The squeaking of the carriage wheels was echoed back to us from the close-standing houses as I wondered absent-mindedly whether Watson would still remember my innate dislike for pristine, peaceful places like this. Indeed, they always filled me with the ominous sense that something unspeakable was lingering just beneath the perfect façade. 

Just then the carriage slowed down to a stop and the cabbie’s voice reached my ears. 

“The inn’s just to the right of St Gregory’s. I can only go as far as ‘ere.” 

Grasping my bags once more, I disembarked, thanked him for his services and paid him handsomely. Then I walked across the extended yard around the church until I spotted the sign of The White Elephant which gently swung back and forth in the wind.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 3:

 

There was nothing extraordinary about The White Elephant of Sudbury. In fact, everything about it was so utterly predictable that I might as well have walked into it with my eyes closed and still found my way to both counter and my room.

The bar contained the usual medium-sized area dedicated to tables and chairs, most of which were mismatched as if it had been decided that it would look particularly charming this way. The wooden floorboards showed strong marks and indentations that indicated the frequency of use which, in turn, suggested to me that despite its plain appearance the inn was, in fact, the hub of activity of this village. The pairs of eyes that were instantly drawn to my figure further consolidated that hypothesis which could only work in my favour if I was prepared to be patient.

“I was wondering if one of your rooms was still available,” I inquired politely as I stepped closer to the counter behind which two wiry people, a man and a woman, were busy looking as occupied as possible. In truth, not very many customers had assembled yet who would have required tending to. 

“How long are you looking to stay for, Sir?” the woman asked at last, eyeing me up with unconcealed curiosity. 

Her eyes were of such steely blue colour that a lesser man might have squirmed under her gaze. For me, however, her agenda was positively transparent. She was searching my person not only to determine how wealthy I was and consequently how much money she could dare to charge, but also to ascertain whether I had the looks of a ruffian, for nothing was meant to threaten the idyll of the village. 

“For a couple of days, perhaps more.”

I could have told her an elaborate ruse, certainly, could have pretended to be visiting relatives or to be a travelling writer who only moved on on a whim, but I was too tired to take on any such role. All I wanted was some respite and answers as to my Watson’s whereabouts. 

Once more her eyes swept over my body as she weighed up her options and then she slowly nodded, naming her price. I agreed without protest, knowing that my silence now would buy me cooperation and privacy later. 

Without delay I was treated to the spectacle that is the silent communication between a married couple when either party is unwilling to relent to the instructions of the other. At length, the gentleman lost the argument and – remembering to conjure up a smile – proceeded to lead me up the stairs and towards my lodgings. 

All three rooms were directly located beneath the roof and the scent of heated wood was thick in the air. It was there that the innkeeper, not a man of many words, extended the key to me and left me to my own devices, and I was happy to see him go. There were questions I was keen to ask, but I could already see that I’d have to formulate them very carefully if I was to receive any truth in return. 

Setting my bags down on the floor, I made to push open the windows to chase away some of the accumulated heat and then proceeded to remove my scarf and jacket, folding both over the back of the only chair available. 

The room was sparsely decorated but immaculately clean as if the arrival of a guest had been expected at any moment. For a moment or two, I walked up and down the length of the space, listening to the stories the placement and state of various objects told me, before sinking down on the bed, my bags at my feet. 

I did not consider it worthwhile to unpack very much, for it only would have served to create an illusion of vacationing, of an extended stay which was terribly unlikely. 

What remained of our landlady’s refreshments I set down on the nightstand and from the other bag I only withdrew, somewhat sheepishly, Watson’s diaries. Then I rose again to tend to my toilet and to change into my nightgown. I fished my pipe out of my jacket pocket and settled down on the bed one final time, smoking slowly and evenly until my thoughts, too, started to unwind. 

The steady realisation, however, that there wasn’t much to be done was still frustrating. I was a man of action, after all, who often struggled with stagnation and feelings of redundancy, yet here I was completely at the mercy of the chase. 

My only aid was Watson’s letter and the trace that pointed towards Sudbury’s postal station. In the morning, I would have to play my last ace and visit it to make inquiries about him, knowing already that it was less than likely that I’d receive satisfactory answers. Yes, a man that fit his description had been seen there, they would say, but where he was headed they did not know.

My toes curled against the soft sheets and I drew at the pipe more sharply. If only I could predict the course of his journey, if only I could use my brain and ignore the overwhelming pull that his diaries were exerting on me.

* * *

The night was an uneasy one. Unaccustomed to my new surroundings and my mind occupied unravelling the mystery of John Watson’s disappearance, I spent several hours in fitful sleep and sat up at last, long before the sun had risen in the sky, the fabric of my nightgown clinging to my body. 

I reached for my cigarettes and lit them and watched as the sky shrugged off its dark cloak and embraced the brighter colours of morning. Time seemed an abstract concept, moving slow and fast at once. 

I had only just returned to England, had I not? And yet the days without my friend had been insufferably long. Had the sun coaxed him out of his slumber yet? Had he muttered the disgruntled moan I was quite accustomed to into his pillow yet? Or was he resting easy at last, free of the ties that London seemed to have bound him with? I hoped for the latter, although I selfishly wished to never pass from his memory. 

Finishing my cigarette, I cast one final glance in the direction of his diaries before I scooped them up and placed them in my bag once more. It had been sentimentality that had caused me to keep them by my side throughout the night, but I knew not to underestimate the curiosity of the innkeepers and so they were better off out of sight. 

Washing and dressing did not require much time, and without feeling the need for nourishment I bounded down the stairs of the establishment and out into Sudbury without encountering so much as a single soul. 

The air was cool but pleasant with a promise of warmer temperatures later on in the day. I wandered down the path that led through the churchyard at a leisurely pace, knowing that it was much too early for the post office to be open. 

Spring had entered the village also and was making its many small gardens and extensive meadows come alive in lush greens that proved a beautiful contrast to the grey and ochre tones of the stone walls and houses. 

It wasn’t so very unlike the little village I had grown up in myself. Everything was in immediate walking distance. There,too, had been one butcher, one grocer, one barber and one post office. For a bigger market and greater selection one had to venture further, an undertaking usually limited to once a week. 

Privacy was scarcely found, for behind every window lurked a curious neighbour thirsting for a scandal. And perhaps one could not blame them. Even now I could not recall a single moment that was not tainted by boredom. Perhaps for boys of a more physical nature there was more fun to be had, but for someone like me who craved mental stimulation it was a bleak place indeed. 

The resilience of children helped me and my brother in the end as it provided us with a variety of activities that only we could have thought up. But as Mycroft grew older, the more he came to revel in the silences that perforated our conversation and favoured the company of written words, of ancient stories and political intrigues to that of the mere mortals around him. 

And while he resented our move to the continent and was never happier than when he could make his own decisions, I felt myself come alive most during a period of time marked by restlessness. Movement and the constant flux of novel stimuli suited my nature and awakened in me a greed that could never quite be stilled. 

But sadly, it all ended much too soon. 

My father left us when I was eight and with a thump we were back in England, soon to be shipped off to boarding school where the steady routine and mundanity caught up with me fast and made me an unpredictable powder keg of pent-up energy. 

I wondered now if Watson valued the change of pace of this adventure (as he had called it) just as I had once valued the novelty of continental life. Perhaps all the impressions he collected on his journey helped quieten the anger, grief and hurt he wasn’t accustomed to bearing. 

But every journey had to come to an end and I dreaded to think how he would cope once his path inevitably led him back to London. Perhaps it would have been wisest, after all, to wait for him in our lodgings at Baker Street, but I would have gone quite insane had I been forced to wait yet another minute. 

No, I chided myself sternly, enough of looking back. The road ahead needed to become my primary focus. 

The post office of Subdury was quaint and old, nestled safely in a cul-de-sac behind which only the river Stour flowed freely. The morning was still young when I approached it and so it was with some relief that I spotted a figure lurking behind the curtains. 

She was hunched over and wrinkled, a kind face peeking out from inside the frame of a scarf that was slung around her head. Her hands were small but sturdy and the deep concentration on her face told me that she was likely standing on her tiptoes in order to reach the curtains. 

The closer I stepped, however, the more I found her kindness to be deceptive and a sense of experience or perhaps intuition befell me and warned me to tread carefully from now on. I could not afford to rouse her suspicion for not only she but the rest of the villagers would snap shut like a trap and I would never gather another piece of information again. 

A little bell chimed happily as I set foot into the post office. Large wooden beams carried the roof on their shoulders and caused even a man like me of average height to hunch over ever so slightly. 

“Good morning, my dear. You’re up early.” 

She sounded surprised and provoked me into an uneasy smile. Surprise was the first step to suspicion. 

“Up with the birds is what I always say,” I cooed, coaxing the muscles of my cheeks into a much more relaxed state. “Nothing quite like experiencing a fresh morning yourself. I’m sure you’d agree, wouldn’t you? You seem a particularly energetic kind.” 

My words had the hoped for effect as she bashfully cast down her eyes, her weathered face flushing gently. 

“You’re very perceptive, Sir, but I cannot deny it. It does not suit me to sit about and lament that what time has stolen from me. No, Sir. As long as I can fulfil my duty and make my customers happy, I have nothing to complain about.” 

I watched her hands as she sorted through a thick pile of envelopes, her movements smooth and careless, a testament to the routine she had acquired over the years. 

Before she had spoken I had already witnessed her zest for life. She moved with purpose despite an askew posture that I attributed to a malformed spine. 

“I was wondering if you might be so kind as to help a lost fellow out?” I proceeded in that same vivacious manner that I hoped would win her over. 

Her light blue eyes flickered over my figure curiously and I watched on in some amusement as she attempted to straighten herself to a more respectable height. 

“That depends entirely on the favour you intend to ask, my dear. You strike me as a confident gentleman and I could not imagine what you could possibly need help with.” 

“Oh, it is nothing much,” I assured her with a winning smile, “it’s just that I was meant to meet a friend of mine here. An upstanding chap who has taken it upon himself to see everything our great country has to offer.” 

“I see,” she hummed, her eyes crackling with curiosity. 

The silence that followed beckoned me to continue. 

“But it appears we have mistimed our meeting. I have not encountered him at the inn and all I have is his last letter which he must have given to you for delivery.”

At once, I retrieved it from within my pocket, pinching it shut firmly before I extended it to her. 

“Yes, that is our seal,” she nodded after having skimmed over it briefly. “But the date, Sir, did you not think to look at it? This was written very nearly a week ago. Of course it is not surprising that you have missed each other.” 

Feigning exasperation I gasped and clutched the letter back to my chest, genuinely relieved, however, to no longer be parted from it. 

“How utterly absurd!” I cried. “I cannot believe I have been foolish enough to overlook this. How will I find him now?” 

I raked a hand through my hair and glanced around desperately. Then, as if struck by a sudden revelation, I jerked my chin up and found her eyes. 

“Perhaps you would know where he was headed next? He is a jovial fellow and likes to talk about his adventures. He is of smaller height than myself but broader built. He has,” I paused as if to give it some thought, “well, he had blonde hair when I last saw him. Maybe there would be streaks of grey running through it now. Age does not back away from men either, you know?” 

I let out a breathy laugh but found no re-assurance in her coolly shimmering eyes. Casting down my own again I proceeded to add as an afterthought, “Oh, and he has a moustache.” 

“Yes, I recall a fellow that would fit your description. But he seemed quiet and subdued, did not say much at all. Just handed over a letter that required sending to London.” 

My throat constricted and it took all I had to stop my eyes from watering. 

“He was polite though, gentle with a lovely smile. Just so very subdued as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.”  

“I see.” 

My cheeks were beginning to ache from the strain I was forcing upon them. 

“Well, at any rate you have my most heartfelt thanks. I shall try to reach him somehow and won’t be troubling you any longer.” 

“Oh, it was no trouble, Sir,” she assured me, though I could read her expression very well and knew that she was relieved to be parting company.

My walk was stiff and tense even though I held my head up high. My vision was blurry as if the woman’s answers had cast a veil over my eyes when, in truth, it were the half-formed beads of tears that restricted my view.

I had received some answers but at the same time learned more than I had bargained for. Watson was terribly unwell, unhappy enough not to project an image of false cheerfulness to the outside world and for all my great faculties, I could not find a way to reach him. 

Despair mingled with disappointment and had me tumbling uncoordinatedly through the village and back to the inn. If I drew unwanted glances I did not notice.

My room was still untouched and as I staggered inside, flinging my jacket and scarf here and there, the stale air seemed to be suffocating me. My throat prickled unpleasantly with every breath I took and my hands had turned warm and clammy in a manner I had come to associate with the most existential of fears. 

Perhaps it was unsurprising then that by their own accord, they unearthed Watson’s diaries from the depth of my bag and flicked them open. His handwriting – albeit small and a little more shaky than usual – was like nourishment to a starving man and I drank them in with a passion that bordered on greed. No thoughts of propriety or privacy entered my mind anymore. I was lost and selfish and needed what he had always willingly given to me.

_4th October, 1891_

_The days are long and dark. There’s a chill in the air that cannot be extinguished, not by the warmth of a fire, not by the warmth of Mary’s body. She has urged me to write. “You must, John,” she said, “we both know it is important. All things, good and bad, you have processed in your accounts before. Why ought this to be different?” “Because he is gone,” was what I wanted to tell her. “Because he has abandoned me when he swore he would not and what sense is there left in the world?” I know I will have to write about it once. I feel responsible somehow for the readers of his adventures who deserve the truth of the events that transpired in Switzerland. But for now I cannot prioritise them. Not when every day is a struggle. I am grateful for Mary, for her unwavering patience and comfort, for her gently nagging insistence that I go and wash and dress and eat every day. Without her, there would have been nothing left of me. Oh, but how it hurts to think and write, to re-visit those dreadful scenes that will, no doubt, haunt me till the end of my days. Perhaps I am not yet ready…perhaps this time my clever Mary is mistaken…_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: drug use!  
> Also thanks ever so much for your kind comments and kudos!!They have been a delight to find in my inbox. I'd love it if you could keep me posted on your thoughts.

Chapter 4:

The impulsive act left me breathless and shaken, the wall of the inn hard against my back as I gazed down upon the first diary entry I’d just read. 

The book in my lap looked innocent enough, but there was no disguising the fact that I had penetrated the highest sanctity of privacy and trust. Watson had stored his diaries in his old shelves at Baker Street for a reason. Hiding place or not, he had thought them safe there until I had callously betrayed his good faith again. 

I felt disgusted with myself, doubly so in light of the raw emotion I had encountered in his first entry. I had been blind in my selfish craving for his company to expect any kind of comfort from his words. Now his words rang in my ears, yes, but solace they did not bring me for they captured his spirit, the essence of him but one that was no longer joyful and optimistic. 

The depth of emotion I had been plunged into, dulled my experience of everything else and made me quite ignorant to the life that was beginning to stir beneath the floorboards. I remained encased in this cocoon of hurt indefinitely, rendered immobile by the intensity of my despair. 

My thoughts circled aimlessly around the same memories. Oh, how often I had taken advantage of his amiable nature! So many hours stolen away in his company, cherishing every smile extended, every laugh shared. 

How easy it had been at times to bring him to my side by feigning illness or a change in my mood. I had never hoped to win his heart and yet it hadn’t been beneath me to twist what little I had of it to give me comfort. 

His company was all I needed, I had told myself time and time again, and perhaps I hadn’t been lying, for I was nothing without his company now but a useless shell. 

I had survived worse, perhaps. Assaults, attempts on my life, the intrigue and affairs of the eastern world where I had been as much a stranger as I’d been throughout my entire life in England. But I had pushed on despite those struggles, strengthened by the knowledge that soon I would return to London and to the company of my Watson. 

Well, not this time. This time even my clever mind had been mistaken. 

Grief welled up afresh in my chest and had me searching with clumsy fingers for the familiar body of my Morocco case. When at last the cool leather grazed the tips of my fingers, my palm was quick to follow suit, wrapping itself around the case with the intimacy of a lover. 

Impatiently, it was transferred to my lap, the solution prepared and the needle plunged into its clear depth. Greedily, my little instrument drank its fill and as I hastened to thrust its sharp tip into my skin, I made no attempt to wipe away the last glorious bead that was glistening in the morning sun. 

At once my veins came alight as did my body, throbbing with the life and the rush that was coursing through my bloodstream. Had my head felt foggy before, it now was thick and full, crowded by thoughts that were tripping over themselves. Solutions that had hidden themselves from view were painfully visible to me, each of them more brilliant and more reckless than the next. 

Sweet euphoria drowned the grief in my chest and made me believe that all was not lost, that I would find what I was looking for if only I was dedicated enough to persevere. 

But as quickly as the rush had come, as quickly it left me, transforming the joy in my chest into uncomfortable fluttering of heart against ribcage. The palpitations persisted, pushing me deep into my cushion with cold hands cramped up against soft sheets. The case, the diaries and everything else rolled haphazardly here and there as I spasmed time and time again. 

From my position I could see the sun rising higher and higher in the sky, could feel its warmth upon my face as my lids twitched, slumber beckoning me ever closer. And through the golden cracks in my vision I at last perceived the familiar figure of a boy, as slender and beautiful as he’d been on the first day of our acquaintance. 

His name is of no consequence now because the role he played alone is paramount. 

We were both young and chained by the expectations our parents and peers exerted upon us. We hardly spoke to each other or, indeed, to anyone else, but whenever our eyes met they conveyed a deep understanding that would have baffled those ignorant souls around us. 

We recognised the _other_ in one another that was denied to us by society and embraced it like the fragile construct it was. Lust or desire were meaningless still and, indeed, we were both mute, dumb and blind whenever our fingers met in shy tenderness, driven only by the innate knowledge that wholeness was to be found in such a caress. 

This nameless boy ignited in me a thirst for something I could not understand, something that was built upon little more than light touches, shared smiles and companionship. 

I thought back to him often, that boy who represented so much to me, wondering where he was, what had become of him. 

Did he feel the choking chains of society’s norm that brand marked him as wrong just as they brand marked me? 

Tears were dampening my cheeks now, though for who I was crying I could no longer tell and in the end I welcomed the darkness that fell behind my lids with open arms. 

When I awoke next, the ennui and despair of the past hours had considerably subsided, leaving behind only shame and regret. My skin was coated in a fine film of cold sweat which I hurried to wash away and my arm showed the harsh punctuation marks of the needle, a testament to the violence and impatience of the act. 

I slicked back my hair and stared long and hard at the reflection in the mirror, reminding myself that this could be the potential end result of allowing my emotions to run rampant. 

Watson would not have approved. 

 _If you deny your feelings_ , he would have said, _you deny yourself. Remember that you can think and feel at the same time, for you are a man of flesh and blood. Be gentle with yourself._  

I saw the hesitation in my own eyes and quickly turned around, wondering if he would still be so generous if he knew that I had read his diary entry. The guilt returned swiftly and settled over me like a mist of poison, but this time I dealt with it by having a change of clothes and abandoning the confines of my chamber. 

As ill as I felt, my body required nourishment and perhaps there was more to be discovered yet at the inn. Had I not once scolded my Watson for his oversight? For lurking in the heath when more useful information could have been obtained by a simple visit to the public house? 

As had been the case the previous evening, all eyes stuck to my person as I descended the staircase and settled down at a table at the centre of the room. Ordinarily, I would have preferred a more private corner but from this particular place it would be easier to observe the locals without causing too much of a stir. 

The interest in my person did not ebb away, however, although most patrons were trying to conceal their curious glances. It was later in the evening and, as I had expected, the bar was growing increasingly crowded. A few folks milled around the counter, undoubtedly to hear the latest piece of news, while a few others noisily pushed tables together and opened up a game of Whist. 

Nobody dared to approach me and when my observations led to nothing but a few glimpses into the private scandals of the villagers, I took it upon myself to initiate an encounter. The opportunity presented itself to me quite readily as I approached the bar to order a bowl of stew and a measure of ale. 

“Are you the gentleman who has lost his friend?” one of the regulars asked brazenly. 

He was of my height and built but with a belly that bulged out generously between us. His eyes were watery with enlarged pupils that spoke of intoxication. His posture betrayed his quarrelsome nature and it was that very observation that made me school my features into a neutral expression. 

“Indeed I am. Is my predicament so unusual?” 

“Quite, Sir, quite,” came the hurried assurance. “Matters are quite simple here. Either one keeps one’s appointments or one doesn’t. At any rate there is no need to go poking about.” 

“Ah,” sighed I, lifting my hands in a gesture of peace, “I did not mean to alarm anyone. I had just hoped to see my friend again.” 

But my response only drew a scoff of contempt from the fellow. 

“Haven’t had a stranger stay here since you came along.”

Oh, he was trying his hardest to catch me out, to ruffle my feathers so that I might confess to the lie I had told at the post office. How irksome it must have been then to see me smiling instead. 

“A shame indeed,” I remarked pleasantly, “as I have received such warm and fine hospitality here.” 

It took his friend’s effort to keep him from throwing himself at me and with a polite nod, I accepted food and drink and withdrew to my table and as I ate, I came to terms with the wait that inevitably lay before me now.

Thankfully, Watson appeared to be in a communicative mood, for it took no more than a couple of days before word from London reached me that another letter had arrived at Baker Street.

I paid both the delivery boy and the innkeeper handsomely to ensure their confidentiality for the last time, then settled down by the window to read Mycroft’s hastily scribbled lines. 

He was reliable as he had always been, informing me of the exact date our landlady had received the letter and what little conclusions he had drawn from the appearance of the envelope. 

He urged me to be sensible with carefully chosen words that would not betray my predicament and suggested I’d take lodgings at The Red Lion of Cromer where he would forward all future correspondences to. 

A quick glance at the envelope contained within Mycroft’s confirmed Watson’s whereabouts to this very city and for a moment I was caught between the urge to read the letter and the urge to pack. 

I settled for the latter with some difficulty, throwing my few scattered belongings back into the bag and shrugging on my coat. It would be a great risk to make for Cromer instantly – for his letter might contain a hint as to a different destination – but if I possessed an ounce of luck, I would get there fast enough to catch up with him. 

Goodbyes at the White Elephant were hurriedly said, transport even hastier arranged and as I sat in the jostling cab that would deliver me to Colchester from where I’d board the train that would take me towards the coast, I felt exceedingly relieved to be seeing the last of this quaint little village.

My burst of energy and determination was momentarily halted, however, when I finally read Watson’s letter.

_My dear Holmes,_

_It is of no use anymore. I have walked as far as my feet would carry me, out of London and to the very edge of our country. Now I stand here at the raging shore of the sea, realising what a fool I have been. Water like this possesses enormous power and while you might have been agile and smart, you would have been too vulnerable in this instance. Yet here I am still, wishing, praying for one last miraculous feat._

_But it needn’t have been like that, Holmes! I was by your side, was I not, until you chose to let me be guided away like a mule who only knows his work? Why then did you ask me to come to Europe with you? Why when the outcome was so clear in your mind? To have me chronicle your last adventure? To capture in the romantic detail you always scolded me for my last hours with you?_

_I’d hate to think of you like that, I’d hate to think that I have erred so in my affections. And yet the facts speak for themselves, wouldn’t you agree? You knew that a ruse was afoot and you used my naiveté to confront the professor alone! Surely I could have been of assistance. I might have lacked the mental capacities, but I am a trained fighter and an admirable shot. Did you have so little faith in me?_

_In my darkest hours I think you both too self-involved, you and Mary. You both thought you knew what was best for me. But in the end you both gave up – you handed yourself to Moriarty, she resigned herself to her illness. Your focus lay on your own predicament alone._

_But what about me? What about me? I am entitled to selfishness now too, surely. She often thought that her death would set me free, that I’d no longer be bound to her side, no longer bound to care for her, worry about her and fear the worst. And you? You seem to have followed a similar train of thought. I could return to England, perhaps, and forget the horrors of Switzerland. I had my marriage and my practice, after all._

_Well, you both were as ignorant as you were arrogant in your assumptions! I have survived the war, I have struggled with injuries both physical and mental. I am a resilient fellow, perhaps, but enough is enough. I cannot keep on losing and grieving and living when the rest of the world deserts me! It isn’t right and it isn’t just!_

_I do not know what to do anymore…I do not know where to go, Holmes. I am quite lost, that is the truth, and I am much too weak to continue._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your thoughtful comments. I do hope you continue to enjoy this. This chapter includes a reference to character death (though it's obviously neither Holmes or Watson) and more on the topic of grief. There will be two more chapters to come or a maximum of three. But two are more likely at this point. Kudos and comments feed my soul and really do help me improve ;)

Chapter 5:

His words remained lodged between my ribs and made my face flush with the exertion of drawing breath. Shame and guilt prickled my throat just beneath my ear and momentarily threw sand into the usually so well-oiled machine that was my intellect. 

My eyes kept flickering over the lines of his writing, soaking up the anger and hurt that was so rightfully levelled at me. Oh, how I hoped that he would not do anything foolish, for the letter had a desperate enough quality to it to make an impulsive, fatal act entirely plausible. 

Jutting my cane against the roof of the cab, I urged the driver to haste, knowing very well of the importance of catching up with Watson. The postage stamp and the date Mycroft had provided me with looked promising as I was slowly and gradually gaining on him, and yet for the man who gives chase every distance no matter how small can seem insurmountable. 

Therefore, I continued to feel the restlessness in my body, even as I had secured a spot on the 1 o’clock train out of Colchester. As we were hurtling towards the East coast, the clouds drew together in the sky until it seemed that the sun had set early and rain was pelting the windows. 

The whole atmosphere was so moody and tumultuous that I shivered in my seat and sought to distract myself by reading over all of Watson’s letters once more.My keen eye was trained on every word, hoping to spot a link or a theme that might help predict Watson’s next step. But without enough data, it was easy enough to arrive at erroneous conclusions. 

Watson was a despairing man, that much was obvious. He had expressed his need to leave London before he’d do something foolish, had pulled himself together and walked most of the way to the sea. That was the soldier in him, I thought, the one that dismissed his emotions as weaknesses and pushed him further and further.

I could only imagine how much physical pain the journey must have cost him, though perhaps that had been preferable to the emotional upheaval. His shoulder would be stiff from the weight of the backpack and his leg aching and burning, unaccustomed as it was to the strain of so much exercise. 

He was seeking to punish us both, me and the late Mrs Watson, and yet he seemed to see no harm in hurting himself in the process.

I feared for him. Had he been somewhere else I might have worried less, but there, driven into a corner with the foaming sea as company that reminded him of my demise, I feared deeply what he might be capable of.  

But this was not about me, not about my life and experiences, I reminded myself bitterly. And Watson had always managed to maintain that attitude. Only occasionally had he grumbled and griped about the shortcomings in his life, but mostly his focus had rested on me. 

Why was he so good and kind and capable of putting his own troubles aside? And why couldn’t I do so now - in the throes of despair and concern for his well-being - accomplish the same? 

For the rest of the journey, I busied myself emptying my mind. Close attention to my breathing, to the path of every single breath helped me achieve this, one of the useful by-products of my time in Tibet. 

Cromer, upon first glance, was much like any other seaside resort in England. The air was rich with the cleansing smell of rain and behind a towering cloud the rays of the sun illuminated the sky in orange hues. 

I felt dazed staring up into the brilliant light, only faintly registering the thrumming of hooves as broughams and hansoms drew along the main parade. 

The Red Lion was facing the sea and its decadent exterior suggested instantly that the clientele that passed through its doors was of a much different nature and standing than that of the White Elephant. In fact, although advertised as a public-house I had my suspicions that the Red Lion catered specifically towards my brother’s kind of people, those who held positions in the government, perhaps, or those that valued privacy and silence above all.

It was unsurprising then that I had barely set foot into the establishment when a young but eager-looking chap hurried to my side and greeted me. He was excitable and yet thankfully discreet, taking my bags off me while ushering me into a nearby private room. 

“It is an honour to have you staying with us, Sir! Your brother’s wire reached us a few hours ago and naturally we’ve prepared a space for you. Rest assured you will not be disturbed but will always have someone on hand should you need them.” 

Used to solitude, his speech was akin to an assault on my senses and yet I could not fault him for his honest dedication. 

“Thank you. That is very kind of you. I can fully understand why my brother would recommend you to me.” I removed my hat and held it against my chest, tapping the rim pensively with my index finger. “There is, perhaps, something you could already help me with.” 

“Anything, Sir. Just name it.”

“Would you be able to point me in the direction of the nearest cliffs? No need to look so concerned, I am merely hoping to find the highest viewpoint there is. It is of crucial importance for my investigation.” 

“Ah, of course, Sir,” he nodded and his face brightened, although I could still see the clouds of suspicion float over him. 

But thankfully without further ado he told me what I had wanted to know and then guided me to the room that had been reserved for me. 

Dark wooden panels lined the wall and excellently matched the large double bed of the same grain and colour. Not a speck of dust was to be seen, no blanket or pillowcase creased. The boy must have noticed my surprised expression, for he proceeded to explain all the room had to offer in close detail. 

“And, of course, we have an ice box here for your refreshments, Sir,” he finally concluded and left once I had pressed a sovereign into his palm.

Just as I had done at the White Elephant, I only unpacked what would be imminently needed and then set off towards the cliffs of Cromer. I cannot say with absolute certainty what I was expecting to find there.

Perhaps a part of me had hoped – however furtively – that Watson might return to the scene that had caused him such grief, but the likelihood of us meting there on the same day at the same time was slim. And so I was not completely disappointed by the absence of that familiar figure but heartened, maybe, that everything looked perfectly ordinary. No news vendor was talking about a man who had flung himself off the cliffs, nor was there a police investigation that may have pointed towards a similarly grim story.

Footprints were left in the soggy ground, but the rain had drawn them all together into a muddy canvas that made it impossible to tell one from the other, and yet it gave me strength to think that one of them was his. We weren’t so far apart anymore and I fancied myself able to find him now at any moment. 

I felt rejuvenated when I returned to my room, no doubt a product of the hope I had gained and the fresh air that had always been good for my constitution. The wind and sun and the salt of the sea that lingered on my skin had chased away the last effects of my drug use and with a clearer mind I had decided to consult the clerk of the public-house once more. 

I requested politely to see a list of the visitors that had frequented this establishment as well as the others in the vicinity in the past week. It was risky, of course, asking for such confidential information without offering up an explanation as to my motive, but I trusted my brother. He would not have suggested the Red Lion to me had he not thought it useful to further my investigation. This was an establishment where rank and power was the highest currency and no questions would be asked. 

The clerk agreed dutifully, less moved by this request than the previous one and with my mind at ease I settled down for the first sound sleep since setting foot into the country.

* * *

The next morning started abruptly in a manner that would set the tone for the rest of the day. Startled awake by sharp knocking on my door, it took a moment before I realised where I was and even then I scrambled out of bed uncoordinated and presented myself to the intruder in a state that would be deemed far from acceptable. 

Facing me stood the youthful clerk, his chest heaving as if he had rapidly climbed the flights of stairs. Specks of mud that clung to his footwear indicated that he had been outside already and the moisture that coated his light brown hair further consolidated my theory that it had been raining.

“I have the list you requested, Sir,” he spoke, thrusting it out towards me. 

It was clearly not why he had shown up in such a hurry, however. 

“What else have you brought?” 

His eyebrows drew together in comical surprise before he hurried to produce the other item on his person. 

“An urgent wire from your brother, Sir. It reads: New letter. Saw fit to open. Subject moving towards Birmingham for encounter with friend Graham. Will forward letter presently but thought necessary to inform you to prepare.” 

“Capital!” I exclaimed, at once more alert, and then sent the clerk away to fetch me breakfast. 

The postage stamp must have informed my brother of Watson’s movement to the West and I was thankful for his indiscretion, knowing that he would not have opened the letter under any other circumstances.

I could not predict how long it would take for the note to be delivered – though knowing Mycroft’s influence, not long – but I needed to use the remaining time to narrow down the search. 

Of course, it was invaluable to know his destination, for I could easily give chase on the next train, but Birmingham wasn’t small and Graham too common a name to forge senselessly ahead. 

With quick strides I reached my bed again and had sat down on it cross-legged, a pipe protruding from my mouth, my back comfortably resting against a stack of pillows when the boy brought in my breakfast. I thanked him and urged him to find me only when my brother’s correspondence arrived and then I focused fully on the task at hand.

I did not like invading the privacy of Watson’s diaries once more but knew at the same time that I had no choice. This was not the selfish act of a desperate man, this was a necessary deed if I wanted to find Watson once and for all and spare him more pain. 

There was no certainty that he had mentioned this friend in his diaries, for indeed even I had not heard him speak of him before. But it would have been foolishness to discard the only items that held the potential for clues. 

The small books felt heavy in my hand despite their size, a cunning illusion. I could not bring myself to read that very first entry again, and yet the ones that followed were similarly bleak and painful.

His pain and anguish were so all consuming that they took up residence in my own body until I ached with all the grief I had caused him. 

The blame he levelled at himself was almost worse and I was grateful now for that last letter in which his anger had finally been directed at me, the one who truly deserved it. 

Throughout the first year of my absence he seemed trapped in that darkness, thoughts of me and my demise consuming his every waking hour and sometimes even plaguing his dreams.

_July, 7th 1892_

_It is terribly warm. Even with the windows flung open the air is thick and humid. But it’s just as well, I have given up hope for sleep anyhow. There is no peace in it anymore. The Falls are drowning me and in their darkest depth I can hear him screaming for me. Why did I desert him? Why did I not think? Sometimes I plunge down into their icy embrace and emerge again cradling his broken body. Those unseeing eyes are haunting me._

Eventually there was a shift, however, and it was apparent that it was due to the care and love of his wife. 

Mary, whom I had experienced to be bright and kind and generous – despite my selfish reservations as to their marriage – had coaxed him back into life. I could feel the excitement and joy in his words again, however tentative and fragile they were which did not mean that his hope for my return was not heart-breaking.

_December, 27th 1892_

_I have taken to reading these entries to Mary, something I could not imagine doing at the very beginning. My thoughts felt too private and precious somehow to be revealed to anyone else. Now I am grateful that I can put them down on paper but don’t have to carry the weight of them on my own. And Mary truly is a delightful listener. She exudes a calm that gives me the confidence to read on, no matter how silly the notions. Lately, I have started to wonder whether Holmes is truly gone. Perhaps it is my own naiveté, but I refuse to believe that a man of his intellect could have been outsmarted. Holmes’s skill of observation meant that he was always three steps ahead of the opposition. He was frightened, yes, but he clearly knew that the Professor was waiting for him. I could not believe that he would have surrendered himself. But where then was he? Injured in the mountains? The thought alone makes my stomach churn. What if I had missed something? What if I had unintentionally condemned him to a terrible fate due to an oversight? Or perhaps he was recovering somewhere, waiting to be well enough to return to me…_

If only I could have informed him that I was well enough indeed, that I was merely biding my time to ensure his safety and the capture of the last of Moriarty’s allies. 

I sucked firmly on the stem of my pipe to clear my head before moving on. It would take time to process his feelings and so it would have to wait. 

The following entries continued in much the same hopeful fashion until at last my eyes caught sight of the name I had been hoping to find.

_March, 3rd 1893_

_It has been less than a week since I published Holmes’s last adventure. I was not capable of it before, too vivid were the memories, too terrible my despair. But I knew I owed it to those who had followed the tales with curiosity and excitement. The outpouring of sympathy was almost overwhelming and I was tempted to lock myself away from it all. But I have patients to see and a wife to provide for. My own well-being has become a luxury but it is just as well; the work helps me focus on other matters. That is until today when I arrived home to find a letter from Graham. He had read what he called the obituary and yearned to express his condolences. I have not seen him since the war ended and his writing was very proper. He lives in Birmingham now, in St Andrew’s Road of Bordesley Village. A respectable area, he assures me. Still, I wish he would not have reached out. His name alone stirs up memories that are not beneficial to me in my current state._

His mysterious words were perplexing to me. From Mycroft’s letter I had imagined Graham to be a friend, a silly mistake as I had not nearly enough data to reach that conclusion. Yet based on this entry their relationship seemed far more ambivalent. 

Was it the trauma of war and their mutual connection that affected my Watson so? Curiously, I read on.

_March, 7th 1893_

_I am relieved, giddy even. What a treasure my Mary is! How she humbles me with her love and understanding. I told her. Finally, I told her. I could not hide it from her any longer, not after that letter. Can you imagine that she wasn’t surprised? “I have known for a while now, John,” she said with a serene smile on her lips, “but it does not alter your love for me or mine for you.” My gravest, most terrible secret has been revealed and yet it is as if nothing has changed. But everything has. By God, I am reborn! I am a free man who can talk and weep and smile without shame. I am free!_

His elation was so palpable that I could feel it tingling in my veins. It was thrilling to read more entries, all similar in nature. My Watson had emerged again, youthful and unscathed with fresh a zest for life. 

For several months it continued like that until finally it all changed and with a sinking feeling in my stomach I read on and suffered with him as he discovered the illness of his wife.

_August, 14th 1893_

_She has been so pale lately. I cannot believe I have been so ignorant. I should have send her to a physician sooner. I shouldn’t have listened to her stubborn refusal. I should have insisted. She barely sleeps these days. There is always a fever and that dreadful cough that robs her of strength. We have moved into a small cottage in the Downs near East Dean. The sea air might do her good. But I know better. I have seen the red rings under her eyes, the sheen of sweat. She has entered the final stage, she is fading before my eyes. But she must keep fighting. My God, if I lose her too…_

What a sad decline it was from then on. How swiftly they plunged into despair.

I could hardly bear to read the entries that detailed with painful accuracy the decline of a woman who had once been beautiful and proud. I could hardly bear to hear his heartache that settled in each and every one of his words. 

There was no mention of Graham again. All I had was his address, one that I prayed had not changed in the meantime.

_November, 2 nd 1893_

_Mary fell asleep today. I hope she is at peace. I truly do, because I will never be again_


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 6:

I remained in the same position for quite some time, staring down at the little diaries as if I had only just discovered my Watson. But I knew that it wasn’t quite true, that it was merely the emotion with which he wrote that was holding me captive. Hardly ever did one get the opportunity to meet another fellow as intimately as that. 

Of course, there were many questions that presented themselves to a curious mind such as mine, but the more pressing matter was to traverse the country and make it to Birmingham. 

Carefully, I unfurled myself from the bed, washed, dressed and packed once more and then proceeded downstairs where the young clerk instantly spotted me. 

“You are leaving then, Sir?” he inquired softly and when I nodded in agreement, he slipped one hand under the handle of my suitcase and pried it away from me. “I will arrange for a cab to the station. Is there anything else I can do for you?” 

“The matter of the bill?” 

“Already taken care of by your brother.” 

“Very well. Then there is only the letter. I believe I have enough information without it – (that wasn’t entirely true but as much as I was happy to disclose) – please make sure it gets returned to my London address unopened and inform my brother to keep any further correspondences there also.”

It was risky, but I was optimistic that I would encounter Watson at his friend’s and if not, well then the friend would be likely to know where he was headed next. Any more time wasted could only work against me.

The journey lasted for the better half of the day and saw me changing twice at Cambridge and Leamington Spa. I used the extended waiting periods to buy refreshments and bask in the tentative rays of the sun, growing increasingly more nervous the closer I drew to my destination. 

This chase had been as exciting as it had been terrible, but at any rate it had consumed so much of my energy and thoughts that I had not once paused to consider what would happen when I was to meet Watson. 

A rather strange development – although perhaps not entirely implausible – since most of my waking hours in Tibet had been consumed by fantasies regarding a reunion. 

I had spent blissful hours conjuring up a triumphant return that would stun and amaze Watson in equal measure. Rather arrogantly, I had pictured him hanging on my every word as I explained to him the miraculous feat of my survival. 

And then there had been the embrace, of course. The sweet weight of his body against mine the best reward after the ordeals I had suffered. 

I had always been aware that I had caused him much grief, and yet I had expected him to thrive as he had always done, so that he would welcome me back with open arms.

I truly was not worthy of him. I should have known that my death would shake him far more, that I would be fortunate if I earned his forgiveness in time. 

So what was I without my unique mind and my artful disguises but a simple man who had committed a terrible wrong? And who would I become if Watson could not find it in his heart to forgive me? 

Doubt and fear were spreading through my body while the train slowly pulled into Birmingham station. Birmingham wasn’t as large as London and yet its noise and dirt reminded me of everything I had not missed during my time in the small countryside villages. Granted, one was practically anonymous here and yet I yearned for the peace and tranquillity that had been much more agreeable for my nerves. 

An eager cabbie spotted me as I wandered aimlessly along the long street that drove determinedly towards the city centre and offered to bring me to a destination of my choosing for the cheapest rate. Naturally, I knew this to be a scam – his less than subtle glances over my person had easily identified him as a ruthless opportunist – and yet I agreed, relieved to be divested of the masses and on my way at last.

I realised, too, that there were no words that would soften the blow I was about to deal to the man I held most dear. My return would come as a shock and I would have to accept it. 

I did not pay much attention to the rest of the city as the driver navigated the way through the many streets and back-alleys towards our destination. He was a talkative sort, filling my silences with shouts of his own and descriptions of a city I had not come to see. Naturally, I did nothing to deter him and dutifully handed over the ludicrous sum he was demanding. 

I slipped out of the hansom at the junction between St Andrew’s and Kingston Road from which – so I had been informed – the street would make a gradual left turn and feed back into the larger roads of the city. 

St Andrew’s wasn’t particularly long, from what I could see of it I estimated that it would take no longer than ten minutes to walk its entire length. And yet it was entirely too large when one did not possess an exact address and did not know the surname of the fellow one was looking for. 

Thankfully, the houses were big, spacious family homes in what appeared to be a quiet neighbourhood overlooking a nearby park. Of course, great cities invited people to mind their own business and yet boroughs like these usually possessed a village-like atmosphere that gave me hope that my search would be successful. 

There was nothing cunning or graceful about the method I applied, but I was admittedly long past caring. I approached the closest house and gently knocked on the door. It did not take long before a nervous-looking woman appeared.

“Yes, Sir?” 

She was obviously disconcerted by my sudden appearance at her threshold and did not dare open her door further than an inch or two.

 “I’m terribly sorry to disturb you. I have been sent to deliver a letter to one Graham of St Andrew’s Road. I’m afraid I wasn’t given more information, but perhaps you’d be able to tell me where I could find him?” 

“I’m not familiar with the name,” she spoke quietly and closed the door before I could utter another word. 

Not entirely disheartened, I left her alone and wandered further up the street where a group of boys was playing marbles. 

“I say, you’ve got the angle all wrong!” I announced noisily as one of the boys had positioned himself to take his turn.

 “What do you mean, Mister?” he asked, frowning up at me from behind a pair of dark, bushy eyebrows. “I am unbeat. I know what I’m doing.” 

“Very well, then, pray, proceed,” I waved nonchalantly, watching on as he tensed, flicked and missed. 

His mistake instantly earned him some raucous laughter and elbow jabbing from the rest of the boys. 

“How should I’ve done it then?” he asked, scowling up at me and I chuckled. 

“So you would listen to my advice now?” 

“Aye, Mister, no need to mock a fellow.” 

“As you wish, but in turn I ask you help me out. I am trying to find someone, Graham by name. I was told to deliver a message but forgot the street number.” 

There was something in the way the boys looked at each other that made me feel rather hesitant. It wasn’t only a plain look of recognition – that much I had bargained for – but something else, something finer that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. 

“Aye, we know a Graham.  There’s only one like him here. A queer sort of fellow.” 

Several other boys snickered and in their scrunched noses and grimaced faces I read openly the kind of contempt I’d been trying to shield myself from as a lad. 

“He lives in that house over there.” 

I followed the direction of his outstretched hand and thanked him. 

“The best way to make a shot like this,” I then offered, crouching down to keep up my end of the bargain, “is if you position yourself as I do now and approach it from this angle. Come on now, try it out yourself.” 

I started to move away as he was still lowering himself to the ground and his excited shouts rang in my ears as I approached the doorstep of Watson’s friend. 

I did not blame the children for their laughter and judgement, I blamed society for making them hate a nature they did not understand. 

Aware now, that this encounter might draw spectators, I steeled myself and raised my hand to knock. It did not take long before somebody answered. 

Graham was older than I had expected. While my imagination had painted him as a young, cheerful fellow, he was in truth of my own age or perhaps nearer to Watson’s with a polite smile that did little to distract from the severity of his gaze. 

“How may I help you?” 

His posture, too, reminded me of Watson. Proud and tall yet ever so slightly stiff. 

“My name is Sherlock Holmes, Sir,” I began softly, careful not to rouse more attention. “I am in search of a friend. Watson told me he would come to visit you.” 

His gaze grew in intensity as he sized me up anew. 

“He has done you justice then, Watson has. Described you to the letter. Tall, thin with slender fingers and grey eyes. Clever but arrogant, too.”

I could only guess what I had done to receive such animosity, but what struck me more than the anger was the instantaneous knowledge that Watson was no longer there. 

The disappointment must have registered on my face, for Graham nodded knowingly.

 “John isn’t here.  Barely stayed an hour, though I don’t think I can blame him. He thinks you dead!” 

There it was, the accusation I had expected to hear from my friend. To hear it now from someone else’s mouth caused me to blush in shame. 

“I had reasons,” I returned quietly, “though I deeply regret deceiving him.” 

His eyes swept over my face and suddenly he crumbled, looking resigned. 

“I haven’t much to tell you, Mr Holmes. But whatever I know is better talked about inside.” 

I followed him into a house that once may have been beautiful but now bore the apparent traces of neglect. 

“Up until a year ago I was the carer for my partner. I didn’t have time to maintain good house-keeping.” He offered this instantly, perhaps he had sensed my thoughts.

I nodded silently and lowered myself into the armchair offered to me. I could not say what made him address me with such candour, I can only suspect that he saw his own nature reflected within me.

 “As I say,” he began anew and I made myself focus on his face rather than the curtains that were drawn to protect him from any outside scrutiny, “John was here yesterday for an hour or so. We were in the military together, as intimate as two fellows can be given such difficult circumstances. John, I believe, was still trying to understand who he was. I had always known.” 

The implications of his words made my face smart with heat. 

Could it be that I had hidden myself from Watson all these years for naught? Could I have found acceptance instead of disgust? 

The missed opportunities opened up before me like a deadly chasm into which I went tumbling headfirst, fragile and sickened. 

“We lost sight of each other afterwards. Perhaps it was easier for him, I cannot say. I was surprised then to hear from a mutual friend that he had become a writer for the Strand and at once arranged to have several of his stories delivered to me. He had always had the taste for adventure, John had.” Here he paused to smile fondly. “I was pleased to hear he felt so invigorated and happy. Many of us have been denied such joy by the horrors of the war. At any rate, his deep affection for you shone through in every line. So when I read about his latest and seemingly final adventure that ended with your death at the Reichenbach Falls, I knew I had to reach out to him. I wanted him to know that there was one man out there at least who understood the depth of his loss. John only reluctantly replied and our correspondences remained scarce. But then only a week or so ago, I received a letter from him. He was travelling through the country and wanted to see me. I was happy to oblige, of course, especially now that I had suffered a similar loss myself.” 

I could not bear to look at him any longer, for I felt a terribly blind fool. But there was no comfort to be found in the rest of the room. Mourning and darkness seemed to pervade every corner and I wondered fleetingly how terribly lonely it must be to grieve for someone whose presence could not be shown in the house for fear of consequences, whose absence could not be worn on the sleeve and acknowledged and comforted as it otherwise would have done. 

“Perhaps he sensed my expectations, the kind of comfort I thought he might search for in my arms….” He trailed off momentarily and heaved a deep sigh. “But before anything could happen, he jumped to his feet like a startled animal. He apologised profusely, said he’d made a terrible mistake and that he needed to leave. I stopped him in the doorway before he could run away and begged him to stay for just a little while longer, if only as a simple friend. But he said he’d been running from the truth for too long. He said he needed to face it now.” 

“Did he say where he would go? Did it seem like he might return to London?” 

Graham’s eyes momentarily softened; perhaps my desperation moved him. 

“No, Mr Holmes, he did not. Though I could not think of a place other than London.”

 I nodded in agreement and stood up. “Then I must take my leave now.” 

“Of course,” he muttered tiredly, walking me to the door once more. “I do hope you find him. If only so his suffering might end.”


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 7:

London welcomed me back with the indifference that capitals such as this were known for and grateful for the darkness and anonymity of the night, I shrank into Baker Street and into the privacy of my chambers without Mrs Hudson taking much notice.

Watson hadn’t returned, at least not to our old lodgings, and it was a testament to the journey I’d undertaken that I reacted to this realisation with nothing but resignation. My thoughts were too full to process and my heart was torn. I felt I had lost him, once and for all, or that I perhaps had never had him to begin with.

The revelation that he might have been of similar persuasion pained me and I punished myself for my ignorance. Worse though was the idea that he had shared romantic entanglements with other men while I had pined for him so desperately over the years.

I envied whatever Graham had possessed of him and loathed him for the rightful arrogance with which he had judged my actions.

Sleep refused to come and when the warm fog finally descended upon me, it was harshly interrupted by a scream that had me scrambling upright.

“Good God, Mrs Hudson!”

I rubbed my eyes and caught a glimpse of her startled form in the doorway.

“Oh, Mr Holmes, I had no idea you’d returned. When I saw someone lying on the sofa I feared we’d been broken into.”

“Burglars rarely stay the night, Mrs Hudson,” I replied rather testily and fumbled for the nearest packet of cigarettes.

“You did not find him then?”

She did not look at me, perhaps to spare my blushes, and instead busied herself parting the curtains and opening the windows; but the gentle understanding in her voice affected me nonetheless.

“No. He was last seen in Birmingham where he visited a friend, but he left abruptly and now the trace has run cold. There hasn’t been another letter by any chance?”

“No, Sir. Only the one I’d passed on to your brother.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” I sighed, rolling the heavy taste of tobacco around on my tongue.

“I pray to God he’s alright,” she uttered passionately and I hurried to re-assure her, although I had no such certainty myself.

His letter, the one Mycroft had wanted to forward to Cromer, arrived in the late afternoon but it only mentioned Birmingham and little else. I had nothing to go on anymore, and yet there remained the niggling feeling that I had somehow overlooked something of great importance.

Unable to find it, however, one day bled into the next with painful slowness.

I tried to re-adjust to life in Baker Street and politely acknowledged those kind souls happy to see me alive and well. I purchased my usual newspapers and went to the barbershop, but without Watson every such activity remained hollow.

Then one night, I had fallen asleep on the sofa once more, an image came to me in a dream. It was so vivid and strong that it connected to a thought in my head and sent me scrambling around the living room in the middle of the night.

The missing link, of course, how could I have overlooked it?

My nervous hands eventually succeeded in unearthing Watson’s diaries and a couple of turned pages later, I chanced upon the entry I had been looking for.

_August, 14th 1893_

_She has been so pale lately. I cannot believe I have been so ignorant. I should have send her to a physician sooner. I shouldn’t have listened to her stubborn refusal. I should have insisted. She barely sleeps these days. There is always a fever and that dreadful cough that robs her of strength. We have moved into a small cottage in the Downs near East Dean. The sea air might do her good. But I know better. I have seen the red rings under her eyes, the sheen of sweat. She has entered the final stage, she is fading before my eyes. But she must keep fighting. My God, if I lose her too…_

The Watsons had hired a cottage in Sussex to escape the city after the diagnosis. Of course, Watson had rightfully acknowledged that there was no place without ghosts and yet perhaps it was easier to face his grief – as he had told Graham – at a place that was out of the scrutiny of the masses, a place that offered fresh air and long walks.

In my obsession with logic, I had overlooked what Watson had always understood best. Human emotions were complex and unpredictable, and so in my desperation I had been chasing the impossible.

This revelation now possessed only a minimal basis of reason and was instead primarily driven by intuition and an intimate knowledge of my friend. He would be there in the cottage in the Downs. This time, I would not be mistaken.

I spent a couple of hours in light and often interrupted slumber and rose with nervous energy to adjust the bags that had already seen so much travel in the past week.

I did not wait to hear whether our landlady was stirring, but proceeded downstairs where I rather rudely knocked her awake.

“Mr Holmes? Whatever is the matter?”

She seemed to have hastily thrown a robe over her nightgown while a cream-coloured cap unsuccessfully tried to contain the mass of grey hair. This, really, was inappropriate but I could not bear to linger another second.

“When Mrs Watson became ill they moved to East Dean to help with her recovery. Do you have the address?”

“I’m not sure that I’m following.”

Bless her, I seemed to indeed have woken her.

“The address, Mrs Hudson, the address. It is of most crucial importance.”

“Yes, I suppose,” she mumbled, pottering back into her flat. “He did send a few notes, good man that he is.”

I could not stop the chuckle that bubbled up inside me, but remained at the door. I had already intruded enough.

At length, our dear landlady returned clutching a small stack of letters that bore his familiar writing. I did not take them out – they weren’t mine to read – but simply scanned the envelope for the address, committed it to memory and then returned them to her.

“I will find him, Mrs Hudson,” I assured her confidently, already turning towards the door, “and I hope you will forgive my tactlessness.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” I heard her mutter as I whizzed off to board the train to the south coast.

The journey was slow with stops at seemingly every village along the way. But when I finally alighted at Brighton station, the last clouds had dispersed and the weather given way to a crisp but beautiful morning. A good omen, if there ever was one.

Hansoms lined the courtyard that welcomed visitors to this sea resort town and I chose the one with the healthiest horses to take me to East Dean. I needed to arrive there soon if I did not wish to lose courage.

The cottage was located further inland, nestled comfortably if also somewhat isolated, between the slopes of the Downs. The closer we drew, the more it became apparent that the structure was in an excellent state with generous flowerbeds that created a colourful perimeter.

My Watson had clearly been busy.

Despite the seriousness of the situation I was about to enter, I could not help the foolish smile that appeared on my face. I knew that I had found him.

It was so very much like him to pay close attention to nature and beauty, to nurture and nourish something so small and unassuming into something of splendour that brightened even the darkest days.

My God, how I had yearned for him!

Then came the moment to pay the driver and disembark, and suddenly my heart was thudding in my chest. I wished feebly for a disguise, for something that concealed me instantly, so that Watson would not glance outside his window by chance and find me standing there.

Without any costume, make-up and speeches, however, I proceeded to the doorstep, feeling vulnerable and exposed.

The time between the touch of knuckles against wood and Watson’s figure before me was immeasurably long. Every breath seemed to be pressed out of my body in painful agony while the sea roared angrily in my ears.

We stood eye to eye then, my dearest, most intimate friend and I, taking in the changes in each other’s appearance with quiet reverence. There were no words to capture the emotions that had to be rushing through him; there were no words I could find that would successfully convey my deepest regret.

“Why don’t you come in?” he asked at last in a voice possessed with eerie calm.

He did not faint, nor did he strike out in anger. I could not say what he might have been thinking.

Together, we entered the cosy warmth of his living room where every corner was filled with something – furniture, plant, decoration – yet still managed to look tidy. Mary Watson was present everywhere, the whole cottage a shrine to her memory, and I wondered if she would judge me as harshly as I judged myself.

We sat wordlessly – I, staring at my knees, him looking steadily out of the window – neither daring to break the silence that had befallen us. Perhaps we both knew how fragile peace could be.

“I had just convinced myself that it was better you were dead,” he spoke slowly and evenly and I kept my head bowed, accepting his judgement. “It was painful and unbearable but the alternative, that you had willingly deceived me, was graver still.”

Tears of shame prickled at my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I had come to comfort _him_ , after all.

“I have read your letters. I’ve received all of them.”

I cannot say what possessed me to begin like that.

“As a matter of fact, I have been following you across the country. I’ve been trying to reach you, Watson.”

I felt his eyes boring into me, heard the words he did not speak. My consideration had come too late. I should have known sooner what hell I had put him through.

“Would you care for some tea?”

I nodded my head but kept staring at my knees still, cowardly, no doubt.

Neither one of us was thirsty, of course, but I would not prohibit him from creating the distance he clearly needed. I could only imagine the stunned shock he must be in.

Several minutes passed in which I only shifted to stare at the line of the horizon that was just visible through his window. Then he returned and politely set a tray down before us and re-claimed his seat. Our thighs were touching by now and through the intimate contact I thought to feel the tension that was pulling his muscles taut.

“I really am dreadfully sorry, Watson. I was trying to protect you. Moriarty had other men with him in Switzerland, most importantly one Colonel Sebastian Moran, in possession of an air rifle. You may have heard of his arrest a few weeks ago?”

I tentatively tilted my head to catch a glimpse of him, but Watson’s eyes remained vacant. Whatever zeal for adventure he had once possessed, wiped out by the terrible grief he had suffered.

“At any rate, I allowed Lestrade to take the credit for it. I did not want you to read about my return in the papers.”

“I would not have noticed,” he answered dully, “I avoided everything connected to you and to London.”

Once more I nodded to myself. It was as if I had been reduced to nothing more than a silent, dumb puppet.

But when the silence appeared to stretch on endlessly, I inhaled deeply and then turned to face him.

“What I said earlier, Watson, was only a half-truth. In fact, I have been nothing more than a damnable imbecile. I had no idea how much my death would move you. But I should have known.”

I brought a hand to my forehead to chase away the ache that resided there.

“Did you not trust me to keep your secret?”

“Oh my dear fellow!” My voice buckled under the emotion that hung thickly in the room. “Of course, I trust you. But your kind heart, Watson. I feared it would inevitable give me away. You could never have written such a convincing account had you known I was alive.”

His blue eyes came to rest on me then, their intensity piercing me. I was wondering if he could see right through me, could see how hollow I had grown in his absence.

“Well, I am glad my actions have perfectly fitted that little scheme of yours,” he spoke venomously and rose to his feet.

Taken aback and chastised, I remained where I was, unaccustomed not to his temper but to the bitterness in his tone.

“It was an underhanded endeavour and I am profoundly sorry. It was a shabby way for one fellow to treat another, let alone a friend.”

But Watson remained at the window, staring outside at a spot I could not see.

At long last, his shoulders sagged and he turned around with a sigh.

“I apologise, Holmes, I spoke in anger.”

He only looked sad now and lost, and I felt compelled to rise to my feet.

“I truly am relieved to see you alive and well. It is more…it is more than I could have hoped for…”

I saw him crumbling by the tremor of his hands and hurriedly crossed the room to draw him into my arms. No thoughts of propriety or societal norms entered my head. It really was so frightfully easy.

I held him close and supported the back of his head with the palm of my hand. He was warm to the touch and so very real that I could not stop the tears from falling onto the crown of his head.

“I am so very sorry, John. About my actions, about the loss of your wife. I should have been there. I would have been there had I not been so dreadfully wrapped up in my own fears.”

He sobbed against my chest, wetting my shirt and I held him as firmly as I could, rocking us both back to shore and safety.

Finally, he lifted his head to look at me and in the absence of words an understanding passed between us.

“You will stay with me now?” he asked with caution that bordered on innocence.

“If you permit me to, my dear?”

For a moment or two it seemed as if he needed to consider his answer, but then he nodded slowly in acceptance, nestling himself back against my chest.

“But I am still cross with you.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My wife asked me to write a happy ending for once, so here you have it. Thank you for your warm and kind reviews and the lovely welcome to a new fandom. I hope you've enjoyed this!

Epilogue:

Several weeks passed in which he did not let me out of his sight. I stayed with him at his cottage until I had no more clothes to wear and this state warranted a trip to London to launder everything and retrieve additional items. He accompanied me, of course, which not only pleased me but also our landlady who had been so dreadfully concerned about him.

Our intimacy developed naturally yet felt oddly familiar. The old subtle gestures and touches remained just that because circumstances demanded it. But when I held him at night through his bad dreams and grief he was more than just my lover, he was my closest friend, my most loyal ally and partner; he was my heart.

His anger, however, did not disappear easily. There were those painful times when he shrank from my touch only to beg me to remain in the same room so that he might be certain that I was as real as he and not a figment of a bereaved imagination. And there were times when he cursed himself for his anger, where he pretended desperately not to be cross in fear of tarnishing or wasting our time together.

I did not blame him for the tumultuous state of his emotions, not when I had gained so deep an insight into his grief. He did not become any less good to me either, and I remained in awe of him and his kindness as I had always been.

Together, we settled at the Downs indefinitely. It was a strange period of restlessness and uncertainty, but I knew that he needed time to recover. He had suffered through so many losses, twists and surprises in the past four years that I did not begrudge him his seclusion. I encouraged it.

Between his publications, the money obtained from his practice and my own cases, we had amassed enough funds to live comfortably for a while, if also not in great luxury. So Watson grew his own vegetables and herbs to minimise our spending, and we made do without dinners at fancy restaurants. London would certainly have proved more tempting.

Initially, I did not miss the thrill of the chase. I was content in his presence and our newly acquired intimacy which provided me with so much new ground to discover and explore.

But the black moods returned like a curse and the days grew longer and longer. I did my best not to let him see, for I did not wish to hassle him into making a decision. I wanted to grant him the time and peace he’d always granted me. So I busied myself to the best of my ability and gave my brain distractions whenever it threatened to plunge into the bottomless chasm of darkness.

“I say, Watson,” I therefore spoke one day when we had come to be on the sofa together, my head securely cradled on his lap, “I have been considering acquiring some hives. What say you to that?”

I felt the slight pivot of his body and the sharp focus of his eyes upon my face.

“Hives?” he repeated.

“Yes, bees. You know I’ve long held a fascination for these creatures, and we would both benefit from the honey.”

“Are you suggesting we try our hand at advanced baking?” he probed playfully and I chuckled.

Memories of our first cooking attempts were still fresh in my mind. The mess we’d created had taken several days to clean up. Oh, how we both missed Mrs Hudson!

“Well, it is a natural sweetener,” I hedged, tilting my head back as far as possible to gaze into his eyes. “Though I propose we stick to what we know. Food poisoning can be a nasty business.”

He gravely nodded his agreement and then returned to reading his book. I let him be for a while before gently probing again.

“You are against the notion then?”

“Not on principle,” he hummed comfortably, “but I think the timing to be inopportune. Who will tend to the hive when we are back in London?”

I tried to contain my emotions, but he must have felt me stiffen against him.

“London?”

“It is obvious you need to return, my dear. You have been fidgeting terribly of late. And really, we both are too young for retirement.”

Guilt in my chest made me sit up sharply.

“Oh, my dear Watson, I do beg you to ignore those terrible whims that drive me. You deserve all the time in the world and I am most certainly content with our life.”

I had not expected him to chuckle at my impassioned speech, and reacted with a slighted huff when he proceeded to capture my face with his broad hands.

“You have given me enough, Sherlock. It is time you stopped chasing me. You have found me and I shall not leave your side. I shall miss the privacy of this cottage, that I cannot deny, but I will make time for myself in London. Grief and love are not dependent on location, my dear. I will have dark days in London as I have had them here. But it is time we worked together once more. The cottage and the bees for that matter will wait for us, a warm promise of which we have been fortunate enough to have had a taster.”

And then he kissed me with all the tenderness he possessed and all the comfort this contact of lips against lips could create. His decision was final, that he conveyed also.

“If you are certain,” I obliged, maintaining the touch of our foreheads. “I must admit I have grown bored of our predictable, simple diet.”

He laughed throatily, a warm rush of air against my face mingled with the bristling of his moustache against my skin, and it was the most glorious sound I’d ever heard.


End file.
